Safety Dance
by Lucy Pryde
Summary: Emmett, do I look fat in these jeans?" In which a very human, very pregnant Rosalie asks her husband the feared question, and in which said husband fails epically at dealing with his wife's atomic mood swings. A small lovers' spat ensues. All Human.


**Disclaimer: I do not own _Twilight_ or any of the characters therein, nor do I own the song "Safety Dance" by the Men Without Hats. These trademarks are the properties of Stephenie Meyer and the Men Without Hats, respectively. No copyright infringement is intended. **

** A/N: The link to the song mentioned can be found on my profile, and I highly suggest that you open my profile in a new tab and listen to the song so you'll receive the entire effect. Happy reading!  
**

"Emmett, do I look fat in these jeans?" I asked my husband, examining my figure in the three-sided mirror that the maternity store dressing room was equipped with. A Pea in the Pod was my favorite maternity shop; the clothes not only fit my five-month pregnant form, but they also were geared towards higher fashion. I was Rosalie Hale McCarty; there was no way I'd be caught dead or alive in frumpy maternity clothing like Jill from prenatal yoga.

Emmett, who stood behind me, seemed slightly at a loss for words. He leaned down and planted a tender kiss on my neck, wrapping his arms around my bump.

"Babe, you know that you're one hot momma in whatever you wear," he whispered, sniffing behind my ear. His voice, so deep and smooth, almost made me forget that he was avoiding my question like a coward.

I felt my pregnancy hormones surge, and suddenly I was livid at my husband.

"Emmett Jonas McCarty, your attempt at avoiding my question is pitiful. Now, do these jeans make me look fat or not?" I put my hand on my hip, raised my left eyebrow and assumed the traditional "I'm not taking your crap" pose that has been celebrated by women everywhere for generations. Emmett froze. I knew that I was the cat and boy oh boy did I have his tongue.

"Rosie, you're five months pregnant; obviously, you're not going to be a size two anymore." His words brought on nostalgia for my Vera Wang outfits, which were stashed in the back of my closet for the blessed day when my stomach would be rid of my lovely little bundle of joy. Another hormone surge hit me like a Louisville Slugger hits a baseball. Tears pooled in my eyes at the thought of my large belly.

"Why do I have to do this?" I sobbed, leaning back against Emmett. "Why am I so big with this baby? Why can't _you_ be pregnant instead of I. Nobody cares when a _man_ walks into an Independence Day party in maternity clothes, but when _I_ do, everyone is whispering about how big I am. Why?" I knew I was being irrational, but pregnancy has many blessings that come with it, and apathy is one of them.

"Darlin'," he drawled, "it's just the way that God made you, and I think He did an excellent job." He was buttering me up—I could feel the brown-nosing oozing from every word that passed his treacherous lips.

"Besides, guys can't pop babies out for the same reason that girls don't make good football players; it's just not in our genetic makeup." I was awestruck. Did the man I had married actually believe that women couldn't play football? Why hadn't I realized that I was marrying a sexist pig? The baby I was carrying had a fifty percent chance of being male, meaning that there were half and half odds that I was pregnant with a sexist piglet.

"Do you honestly believe that women can't play a simple game like _football_? Brains, not brawn, are the things that actually count. I know it might be hard for you to wrap your mind around, Emmett, seeing as you were unlucky to be brawny and lack the brain cells required to reach this conclusion, but please, bear with me." Pregnancy also heightened my witty and sarcastic nature, sharpening my silver tongue until it was deadly.

I pulled away from my husband, disgusted by his infernal sexism. I turned around so I was facing him and prepared to put him back in his place.

"You." I punctuated each word by poking my refrigerator of a husband in the chest with every word. "Are. A. Sexist. Pig."

Emmett grabbed my hand and started trying to speak soothingly to placate me. I wasn't having it.

"Rosie," he whined, "I'm not sexist. There are just some things that guys do better and some things that girls do better." Oh, right. I could almost hear the silent words that he was no doubt mentally tacking on to the end. _Guys do most things better, and girls can cook, kiss, and make babies. _

I was positively livid. I glared at Emmett, and apparently he was having one of his smarter moments, because he had enough sense to look terrified.

"How could you think that?" I almost yelled. Remembering where we were, and also feeling my mood change from angry to sad, I quieted. "What about the baby?"

He was puzzled, and I sighed tiredly, exasperated.

"What _about_ the baby?" he echoed, obviously not catching on. I ran my fingers through my hair.

"What if we have a little girl who idolizes Mike Anderson from the Denver Broncos? What if the child I'm carrying is a little boy who likes to dance ballet? What if his friends all tease him about not playing baseball or X-Box because he's too busy pirouetting across the diamond? Have you ever thought about that, huh?" Emmett tried to get a word in edgewise, but I was on a roll. It was either a roll or a rampage, and I honestly wasn't sure which it was.

"What are you going to tell little Emmett Junior when he comes home crying because every single one of his buddies thinks he's gay? Are you going to tell him to give up his dream because it's not something that guys do? What _would_ you tell him?"

Emmett's features softened, his dimples showing brilliantly as he gave me a soft smile.

"He can dance if he wants to. He can leave his friends behind." Those words sounded familiar, and Emmett's eyes lit up as he realized what he'd just said.

"And they don't dance, and if they don't dance then they're no friends of mine!" He sang, doing a little dance.

I could hardly believe that he had the guts to stand before his pregnant wife and make a joke out of her feelings. I was getting ready to punch him, but then he started to make towards the door of the dressing room.

"S-A-F-E-T-Y! Safety dance!" he whisper-sang, backing out of the room as he made the shapes of the letters with his hands like a child.

I was shell-shocked as I stared after Emmett, and only one thought crossed my mind: he was definitely sleeping on the couch that night.

* * *

Later that night, I was sitting at a table in a nice restaurant. Bella and Alice had insisted upon taking me out to dinner that night, and I was relieved to get away from Emmett. I was telling them the story of what had happened earlier at A Pea in the Pod.

"And then," I continued the tale, "he started singing '_Safety Dance'_ to me!" I growled angrily as I vented to my friends. Bella and Alice both looked like they were trying to suppress laughter. Some friends _they_ were.

"Of all the songs to sing, he had to pick that one! It's the one with the gnome in the music video, and that just reminds me that I'm pregnant with his child, which is causing me extreme discomfort as it sits on my bladder day and night and messes with my hormones and eating habits. Do you know that I ate _waffles_ this morning? I _hate_ waffles, but they tasted so incredibly good. Emmett McCarty is ruining my life, and all the sympathy he has for me can be summed up in the fact that he sang "Safety Dance" to me in a dressing room.

Bella looked like she didn't know what to say, but that's never a problem for Alice.

"Don't' take it out on the song, Rosalie," she advised, swirling the coke in her glass with her straw.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it's a good song?" Bella asked more than said. I rolled my eyes. Bella _would_ like Emmett's odd taste in music.

"Well, that and it's got a good message." I stared at Alice like she was crazy, a thing which she's come to expect from people. When you're that power-packed, apparently you learn to silence those pesky little things called inhibitions and self-preservation.

"Oh, yes, because there aren't many songs telling everybody to look at their hands and dance." I was being slightly sarcastic and biting with Alice, but I was pregnant. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it.

"Well," she said, grinning impishly, "if you and Emmett had practiced the 'Safety Dance,' you never would have had this problem!"

**A/N: This was inspired by the song "Safety Dance" and an episode of Scrubs. The links to the Scrubs snippet, the "Safety Dance" music video Rose is talking about, and Rose's jeans can be found at the bottom of my profile. The jeans are Citizens of Humanity brand, a fact which I found slightly humerous. If you really liked or really disliked this story, please tell me so in a review. It'll take a second of your time, and it'll lead to me not being a suckish writer. Thanks for reading!**


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